This was my exact car! Color and everything. I was the first of my friends to get a license. We would leave school 3-4 days a week to go get Wendy's. Along the trip, we battled it out to see how many fake wood paneled cars we could see, and who could call them out first. We knew the layout: which driveways had the "fake woods," which didn't; which might be in garages; how to lean ahead out the window to get the best angle to see ahead of the next person; the orders of the tie-breakers (hit the roof! hit the roof again! hit the roof again! put your finger to your nose! start arguing).





I read, in a book my friend gave me, that Australian Aborigines learn their landscape through song. The song travels from landmark to landmark, changing pace depending on how fast the travelers are moving. At a walk, the song makes sense, and teaches an individual, not only how to make his or her way from place to place, but the history of the landscape. The song is a thread, triggered by—in some sense literally built into—the land. In some places, like larger landmarks, or waterholes, the song-threads of many tribes will intersect. These threads, over time, may become interwoven; lead to new knowledge of the land, songs to sing, paths to follow.